


Beyond Biology

by DebaucheryandThings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Case Fic, Drug Addiction, Eventual Sex, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:37:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DebaucheryandThings/pseuds/DebaucheryandThings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are made for each other. But what will happen to their friendship and the work as they figure it out?</p><p> </p><p>Additional tags will be added as the story progresses! Also, the tags already listed aren't necessarily mentioned yet, but will be in later chapters.</p><p>- On hiatus until I stop being lazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in more years than I'd like to admit to! 
> 
> It's a work in progress, but a few chapters are ready for your enjoyment.
> 
> Here's just one to start out with.
> 
> Beta'd by the brilliant and lovely Birdi! You should check out her fic "'Round the Bend". You'll love it, I promise!

The desert heat was sweltering, and all of the equipment on top of the uniform wasn’t helping a thing. John quickly brushed the sweat dripping from under his helmet with the back of his sleeve before returning to the Private he was hovering over and to the gaping wound that looked as if it had completely severed his leg. Bombs exploded far too close for comfort and bullets whizzed audibly by while the men around him – his friends, brothers in arms – hit the ground. Captain Watson realized, sadly, that he didn’t have enough hands to save them all. As the man beneath him suddenly went limp, he sat back on his heels. The Private had been on his first tour, and had now left a wife and young child behind. Typical.

He nearly swooned as the heat and adrenaline from the battle around him started to go to his head. Ripples formed along the dunes and debris for just a moment before blurring together, obscuring the carnage all around him. Suddenly, time seemed to stop. John tried to take a deep breath to steady himself, but choked on the taste of chlorine as it seared his throat and sinuses.

It took him a moment to realize how quiet it had become. No more bombs, no more bullets, no more sounds of his fellow soldiers crying out in agony. All he heard was his own beating heart in his ears.

The water in front of him shimmered and splashed lightly against the tile surrounding it. Where had that come from? Come to think of it, where had all the heat gone? He wasn’t cold, no. He was still overheated, but it was because of the parka around him, and his chest felt much heavier than it had only moments before.

The doctor looked around the pool area and saw a tall, slender man staring at him in disbelief. The betrayal on his face lasted only five seconds before John started speaking words he couldn’t understand and opened the parka to reveal the explosives strapped to his chest. Sherlock’s eyes widened and darted to the other side of the room.

“I gave you my number…”

John bolted upright with a strangled yelp, covered in cold sweat. His breathing was quick and shallow as his eyes darted around his bedroom. When he realized that he was safe inside 221B, he concentrated on slowing his heartbeat and respiration, falling back onto the mattress with a small groan.

His nightmares about his last day in Afghanistan had decided to mingle with Sherlock’s and his first direct encounter with Moriarty. Well, while the psycho wasn’t playing ‘Jim from I.T.’.

He huffed at the dark ceiling above him before turning over to look at the alarm clock on the side table. Three AM. At least his subconscious had the decency to scare the hell out of him when he didn’t have to be up for work in the morning.

Twenty minutes had passed before he accepted the fact that sleep wasn’t returning to him any time soon. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched with a heavy sigh. The dim light trying to creep under his closed door didn’t go unnoticed, and the low groan that sounded beneath his feet confirmed the obvious. Sherlock was up and probably on the verge of a tantrum.

John rose from the bed and grabbed his dressing gown before heading downstairs with the kettle in mind. He padded carefully down the steps in order to avoid disturbing his flatmate in whatever was flustering him at the moment, but should have known he couldn’t be quiet enough.

“Nightmares again?” Sherlock called from the kitchen, where he was more than likely hunched over his microscope. John hadn’t even laid eyes on the man, and already he was being deduced.

He made his way down the rest of the hall and couldn’t help the sheepish smile that laced his lips as he caught sight of the detective. In his mind, he should be over nightmares in general by now, but said mind apparently disagreed.

“Yeah. It was different this time…” He trailed off as he filled the kettle and switched it on. Sherlock didn’t bother looking up at him.

“Afghanistan, pool, or both?”

John blinked at him for a moment before sputtering a bit. “B-Both, actually. How did-“ He cut himself off. Really, he shouldn’t have to ask how Sherlock figured anything out after having lived and worked with him for several months.

The man made a face, and John couldn’t tell if it was at his half-uttered question or at what he was examining.

“Both incidences are your most recent traumatic events. It only makes sense that you would dwell on one or the other, or that they’d combine in your subconscious, despite the latter having happened weeks ago. I’m almost surprised that you haven’t dreamt of the Black Lotus incident, but then again, I did save you and What’s Her Face.

“And you’d do well to finish your thoughts if you’ve started voicing them, even if they’re stupid ones.” A self-satisfied smirk shadowed the usual blank-slate expression he wore during an examination.

John decided against dignifying Sherlock’s customary rudeness with an answer. Instead, he finished making the tea and slid the extra cup across the table to him.

“What are you working on?” He asked quietly, leaning against the counter. He only asked because his flatmate suddenly being able to deduce even his dreams made him somewhat uncomfortable.

After a full two minutes with no response, Sherlock leaned back and took the cup he’d been offered. “Just examining some dirt from an old shoe.” He gave John a small, tight smile and hopped off the stool, heading for the living room with his dressing gown billowing behind him over dramatically.

The blogger frowned at his back, but couldn’t help admiring how graceful the other man could be, even if it seemed like he was being an arse. John’s frown turned in on himself for a short moment. Since when did he find Sherlock graceful? He rolled his eyes and followed him into the sitting room, settling into his chair.

The detective had already buried his nose in his laptop and was typing away, his tea abandoned on the coffee table. John sipped at his own cup before speaking up again. “Is this a case you haven’t told me about yet, or is it for personal gratification?” A fond smile crept across his features.

Sherlock huffed, but his eyes didn’t stray from the screen. “Must you ask so many questions?”

The doctor’s smile faded as he pursed his lips. Nothing grated his nerves like his flatmate getting testy with him for no apparent reason. “Excuse me for having to ask my questions instead of being able to glance at someone for half a second and practically read their mind.”

Sherlock finally looked up and seemed as if he was going to comment on the mind reading quip before thinking better of it. That was new. “If you really must know, I’m simply indulging my curiosity.” His tone held an air that the blogger couldn’t quite put his finger on.

John took a deep breath and decided he wasn’t willing to open that can of worms. He drained his cup and moved back to the kitchen to rinse it out. All the while, he felt eyes boring into the back of his head. The feeling made him blush self-consciously, despite the probability that the only other person in the flat had lost interest in him.

A sidelong glance told him that Sherlock hadn’t lost interest after all. The detective hadn’t changed his position, but his eyes were locked on John and the corner of his mouth showed what almost looked like a small smile until he seemed to realize he’d been caught. His gaze quickly averted back to the screen.

The blogger’s brow furrowed as he leaned against the doorjamb and eyed his flatmate for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words were lost in a yawn as drowsiness swept back over him.

Shaking his head, he caught sight of his shoes somewhat near the door. Either he was going slightly mad from the absurdly-early hour, or they weren’t where he’d left them. Sure, he wasn’t as observant as The Great Detective, but he knew where he left his things. If he wasn’t mistaken, the right one looked a bit cleaner, too. He made a face at the displaced footwear and at Sherlock in turn before sighing again.

“I’m going back to bed,” he said as he turned and headed back to the stairs. Behind him, his flatmate made a seemingly disinterested “Hmm.” At least he’d acknowledged something had been said to him.

Once he was wrapped up in his sheets again, John’s mind started to wander. First, it went to the dream that had woken him up. While everything was hazy from when he’d been wounded in action and nearly killed, the moments at the pool were almost as clear as if they’d happened just hours ago. Most of all, he remembered how he felt when Sherlock’s face fell as he stepped into view.

The expression had only lasted half a second, but the blogger hadn’t missed it. He remembered what went through his mind when he jumped on Moriarty’s back. _Catch him off guard, and hope Sherlock is a decent shot. Don’t get shot in the head. Don’t get blown up._ The disappointment and, more so, the terror from the little red dot that appeared on his flatmate was practically paralyzing at the time. When they shared the look of barely contained desperation as Sherlock aimed his gun at the bomb that had been thrown to the floor minutes earlier, he’d accepted their apparent fate with his slight nod.

John had never liked the BeeGees much before the madman’s phone rang.

He idly wondered if Sherlock replayed the incident in his mind as well. The detective hadn’t talked about it much, but he’d been willing to die just to rid the world of the consulting criminal. Though he claimed to be a sociopath, which even John knew was far from the truth at this point, the man couldn’t have been unaffected. He huffed and rolled over onto his stomach, turning his head away from the clock and cuddling his pillow.

Sherlock’s behaviour when he’d woken up was just a bit off. Not too far from normal, but after spending the vast majority of his time with the man, it hadn’t gone without notice.

As John slowly started to drift into unconsciousness, pieces seemed to click together. Sherlock’s tight and nearly annoyed – embarrassed? It was hard to tell with the man – smile, his staring, his tone, and the shoes. John had been kidnapped twice since coming to live at 221B Baker Street, and both instances could have ended up with his corpse on a slab, though the latest one might have just left bits and pieces of him behind.

He was certain his flatmate had scraped the mud from his right shoe; the one that was almost always dirtier since that leg really did get stiff every so often, causing a very non-psychosomatic limp.

Sherlock was tracking him. He was trying to covertly get John’s exact patterns and habits outside of the flat down without coming out and asking, or risking being seen following him.

Sherlock was worried about him.

The blogger didn’t fight the smile that formed, or the happy and sleepy sigh that accompanied it. “Sneaky git.”

From there, his mind – or his subconscious, he couldn’t tell and really didn’t care which – meandered to the detective’s graceful flouncing. Then his thoughts went to the stupid way Sherlock popped his coat collar to look cool… and the cheek bones. John could stare at those cheek bones all day, admiring how they perfectly complimented the other man’s full lips and framed his ever observant and ravishing eyes.

It hardly occurred to him that these thoughts about his friend and flatmate weren’t exactly new. He’d made it quite clear, though inadvertently at the time, that the man amazed him. A remark about his cheek bones had managed to slip out as well during a case that had been quite pressing.

Sherlock had seemed confused by the comment as he obviously wasn’t accustomed to anyone complimenting him. He’d mistaken pure curiosity as flirting when they’d first met, and had mistaken flirting as an arbitrary statement. _Maybe one day_ , John thought, _he’ll get a clue_.

  
As sleep finally fell over him, he was sure the nightmares would be held at bay, if only for the rest of the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the fantastic Birdi!

When John got home from his shift at the surgery, or wherever it was he worked, Sherlock waited impatiently for him to go to bed. Having hypothesized that a fight would keep his flatmate awake longer than usual, he didn’t complain about the man trying to pester him into eating again too soon after having solved a case and he did the washing up before he could get to it. He even managed the Herculean feat of keeping quiet during the crap telly John insisted on watching.

Instead of shouting at the screen as was usual for him, he fixed his gaze on it and retreated to his mind palace. Though the palace was mainly used to hold important data that would help him solve cases or get himself out of tight spots that he often found himself in, there was a small wing that he dedicated to the people in his life.

There was a room for Mycroft that was large enough to stuff the rest of his family into, a room for Lestrade that contained a small cupboard for Anderson and Donovan, and a room for Molly Hooper. Molly had earned her own room by being the most helpful to him, and he had to remember which tricks would work the best on her to get what he wanted in any given situation.

Mrs. Hudson, of course, was allowed to roam as she wished.

A little more than ten months ago, he’d jokingly referred to it as ‘the servant’s quarters’.

That was until John moved in.

The ex-army doctor had barged through the front doors and built his very own room from the start. His room immediately expanded when Sherlock realized he’d shot the cabby. A couple more inches were added only a few minutes later when John called him on his guessing and had him laughing harder than he had in recent memory.

Bit by bit, John’s room had stretched. From how he smoothly dealt with the detective’s tantrums, to the way he still openly marvelled at his deductions and how he had even saved his life twice already; the man had proven himself worthy of a significant amount of space in the mind palace.

With a small internal smile, Sherlock realised he wouldn’t be surprised if John eventually built his own wing without him even noticing.

In the meantime, the doctor’s room had developed embellishments like the crinkles around his eyes when he smiled, the way he habitually licked his lips or pinched the bridge of his nose when his nerves were on edge, and even the colour of his favourite lumpy jumper: oatmeal.

A loud yawn from not too far away snapped Sherlock back into the room. His eyes darted to his over-tired flatmate as he tried to contain his relief. “You’ve had a long day, John. Perhaps you should go to bed.”

The blogger gave him a sleepy smile as he nodded and stood. “I’m sure _you_ haven’t been to bed since the last case started. That’s what, four days without sleep now? I’m surprised you didn’t pass out the instant it was solved.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m ready. Don’t speak to me as if I’m a child.” He couldn’t help the indignant pout that was flourished by his sudden flop over the sofa. His long limbs dangled from the edges as he draped an arm over his face. Conversation over.

John shook his head and turned for the stairs. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock waited the minimum fifteen minutes that it should have taken John to fall asleep once he’d climbed into bed. He sprang up from the sofa and slunk to the foot of the stairs, listening. Not a sound came from the doctor’s room.

The detective was eager to start his digging, but decided he needed a shower first. He’d been plaguing poor John with bad personal hygiene since the beginning of the case they’d just wrapped up.

As the water rushed through the pipes, it made a horrendous creak throughout the flat. Sherlock silently cursed himself, but took comfort in the fact that the sound of the shower itself would likely lull his blogger back to sleep.

He defrocked and stepped in as soon as the steam started to rise, the smallest of groans escaping him as the hot water instantly eased the ever-present tension in his neck. While he held his face under the stream, he blindly grabbed for his body-wash. The instant he opened the cap, he knew he’d grabbed the wrong bottle.

The scent of John’s soap conjured the image of the man padding from the bathroom, still damp and holding his towel up around his waist.

Sherlock paused the scene in his mind and smiled.

The ex-soldier wasn’t exactly chiselled, but he was obviously fit. He hadn’t had enough down-time between the end of his military career and the beginning of his work with Sherlock to have become properly out of shape. His morning runs around the park were also doing him some good.

He squeezed a dollop of the liquid soap out onto his washcloth and started lathering his arms. On the off chance that his flatmate noticed his ‘new’ scent, he could easily claim to be out of his own wash.

The scene unfroze, but instead of heading upstairs, John confidently strode toward Sherlock. Not a second after he closed the gap, their lips crashed together and the towel dropped to the floor as his face was cupped between the army doctor’s steady hands.

Sherlock’s breath hitched as he noticed the heat coiling between his hips. He gazed down at his already fully-erect member with a confused frown. He could have sworn he had deleted that specific reaction to John, after he nearly showed the afternoon drivers of the A40 his tent-pitching skills when the man tackled their suspect in the middle of traffic three cases ago.

He leaned his head against the tile behind him and palmed his erection with a sigh. _Might as well._ His hand slid from the base of his shaft to the head with the thought of John taking down the suspect along the A40, who happened to have been twice his size.. Sherlock’s own recklessness had apparently rubbed off on his ex-soldier. A low moan sounded deep in his throat as his pace quickened.

 _My soldier… My blogger… My John._ He grinned at the thought while his thumb slipped over his tip, causing him to hiss through his teeth. His breathing became ragged once he had a good rhythm going, twisting his hand around his cock as he pumped. Each time he reached his swollen head, he palmed it, sending shivers up his spine.

Having his blogger in mind throughout, it didn’t take long for him to reach the edge. The man’s lightly sculpted arms, his surgeon-steady hands, the way he handled Sherlock’s own crudeness with the grace of a saint…

At that, his orgasm shook him. He trembled under his own ministrations with a whimper, eyesight going blurry as he pumped himself through his climax. _John… My John…_

He sucked in a shaky breath as the world came back into focus. The water had since gone cold and he quickly rinsed off, almost regretting the near-complete loss of John’s clean scent. Only a hint remained on his skin, but it would have to make due.  

Sherlock hurriedly dried himself, towelling his hair until it stopped dripping. Judging from the look on John’s face before he went to bed, he’d be having nightmares again tonight. There was no telling how long he would have to find what he was looking for.

Clad in pyjamas and his favourite dressing gown, he snatched up John’s shoes that were sitting neatly against the wall between the kitchen and door. He eyed them for half a second before deciding the right one would produce more dirt to work with. As it turned out, the limp wasn’t entirely psychosomatic, but it only caused problems when the temperature dropped suddenly, or when the man had taken a particularly jarring hit to the limb. Sherlock had yet to have the opportunity to see the scars from the injury that caused it.

In the kitchen, he scraped a healthy sample onto a petri dish and tossed the now useless shoe toward the door. He slid the sample between the stage clips of his microscope and adjusted the objectives.

Most of the particles were identified easily enough. Chalk – He’d run through the Gardens instead of around it and the surrounding businesses. Tiny bits from worn pavements and asphalt – He’d walked to work. No limp at all today. Particles that looked like cotton and stained bits of string from old mops – Of course he’d been to work. And the janitors weren’t keeping up with their equipment as well as they should be. The mop heads shouldn’t be _that_ stained, and the cotton shouldn’t have been picked up if the dust mops were in good shape. If the mops were that old, there was no telling what else wasn’t fit for cleaning a hospital.

A low, disgusted groan escaped him at the thought.

There was a slight creak from above. John was up. He heard the man trying to be quiet as he joined him, but in the silence of the flat, he might as well have been taking them two at a time.

“Nightmares again?” He didn’t know why he asked when the answer was written all over his flatmate’s face. Without bothering to really hear his answer, Sherlock asked which one plagued him this time. Unsurprisingly, it was both.

He sighed into his microscope as his mind wandered. Why did John enjoy using that particular park for his morning runs? The short distance from the flat would be the obvious answer, but the man never used another one, even when he claimed to be feeling rather vigorous beforehand.

Sherlock made a face at a purple bit in his sample that he hadn’t noticed before. Then he heard John’s half-uttered question, and his expression soured further. He rambled a little about the obviousness of John’s dreaming before smirking chastising him for not finishing the thought, even though it was a stupid question. For a man with above-average intelligence, John could sure ooze stupidity at times. At least the occurrences happened less frequently now than when they had first met, though it impeded on his own showing off.

The room was silent for a short moment before John just had to ask what he was up to. He chose to ignore the question until he’d finished examining what he’d scraped up. He leaned back and took the cuppa that he’d apparently been offered and looked up at his flatmate. “Just examining some dirt from an old shoe.” He gave John what he thought was a mildly polite smile and headed for the sitting room.

Sherlock immediately went for his laptop and began searching the details of John’s chosen park, abandoning his cuppa on the coffee table.

Sure, he’d been more than familiar with the place by living so close and chasing various suspects though its multiple paths, but he’d never bothered taking the time to ‘stop and smell the roses’. There _had_ to be a reason, outside of the obvious, that that was John’s chosen place for solace in the wee hours of the morning.

He was only vaguely aware of the creaking of the chair across from him as his blogger joined him. Another question was hurled his way. Why did he have to be so nosy?

Sherlock murmured something he was hardly aware of, and was surprised at John’s tone and mention of mind reading when he replied. He looked up and almost commented on it, but decided against it. From the purse of the man’s lips, he was already agitated and Sherlock didn’t know exactly what he’d done to cause it this time. _Probably something I’ve said, as usual._

When he heard the man return to the kitchen, he couldn’t help but stare at him. It was one of the few moments he was able to observe John without his knowledge. In the back of his mind, he registered that the shoe observations might count as some form of stalking, but he was worried about his best friend.

The corner of his mouth twitched up as he considered the possibility of John not being opposed to the idea. That only lasted for half a second before he noticed that eyes were on him.

 He returned his attention to the laptop fast enough to give himself whiplash.

Sherlock stared at the screen in front of him, just barely remembering to move his eyes to give the impression that he was actually reading. He felt John’s eyes on him for what felt like ages before he heard a sigh and a declaration of bedtime.

“Hmm.” He tried to seem as disinterested as he usually was; which was only disinterest to anyone outside of his head.

He continuously caught himself trying to study and deduce every little thing about his blogger in the past few weeks. Sure, most things came easily, but Sherlock wanted to be able to anticipate John’s reactions to the little things he, himself, did. John was the only person he actually cared about upsetting. The man was his only friend, and he’d give his left arm before he drove him away.

After John had retreated to his own room, Sherlock sighed to himself. He closed his laptop and stood, stretching. There wasn’t anything else he could look up about PaddingtonStreetGardens that would be of any use to him. He decided he’d just have to go and investigate on his own, but it wouldn’t happen tonight.

He glanced around the flat and saw nothing that could occupy him, short of disturbing John and Mrs. Hudson with his violin. Even that didn’t seem interesting as the haze from his most recent forced-bout of insomnia suddenly caught up with him. 120 hours without sleep –John had been short a day; he wasn’t as observant as he liked to think – was far too long to go, even for the detective.

He shuffled into his room and shucked off his dressing gown before tossing himself on to his too-rarely used bed. _Might as well._ When he’d tossed and turned enough to effectively turn himself into a sheet mummy, he let his mind wander of its own accord.

His first thoughts were of Jim Moriarty, the world’s only consulting criminal. Sherlock scoffed aloud, but didn’t force the thoughts away. The man was the antithesis of the detective, and he was terrifyingly good at his job.

The game the madman had set up had, indeed, been enthralling, but it was almost too much toward the end. Unbeknownst to John, hearing the old woman explode on the other end of the line had bothered him more than he let on. And hearing the child, whose life depended on two little dots in a fake painting, was jarring. Of course, he was more than comfortable with and grateful for everyone around him assuming that the only thing he cared about was winning. Life was easier when you didn’t care.

Moriarty had noticed from their first meeting – while the man was playing Jim from I.T. – that John was Sherlock’s own proverbial jugular. The man had even noticed before the detective had. For the hundredth time since the incident, he cursed himself. Had Sherlock been paying more attention, he’d have noticed Jim figuring that out.

He would have been able to stop the whole thing before it had started, though at the great loss of the game. At the very least, he could have stopped screaming at the telly about a useless paternity test and come up with an excuse to keep John in that night. Maybe he could have stopped him from being kidnapped and nearly killed.

Sherlock rolled again, tightening the sheet around him just a bit more. As he closed his eyes, his mind palace opened the doors to John’s quarters, gracing him with his more pleasant memories and thoughts of the man. Normally he hated repetition, even in thought, but his blogger always made him smile every time he went through this particular room.

He smiled as he once again recalled John tackling the suspect on the A40 and dragging him to the side of the road, keeping him restrained until Lestrade and company decided to join them. His thoughts rolled between meals and late nights doing nothing in particular that were filled with laughter, to John pesteing him into eating when he was nearing collapse during a very small handful of unsolved cases.

Eventually, he made his way back to their second day together. The pink speckled pill was near his lips as the quiet of the room was shattered with the sound of a nearby gunshot. The cabby lay on the floor bleeding. Sherlock tortured the man’s final word from him. “MORIARTY!” Then, he was in the back of the ambulance with that stupid shock blanket around him.

He’d been telling Lestrade small but important details about his unknown saviour when he spotted John standing on the other side of the police tape looking all too innocent.

“I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket.”

John had been so nonchalant about having killed a stranger to save the life of a man he’d met a little over twenty four hours previous. And then he’d called the man he deemed ‘amazing.’ and ‘brilliant’ an idiot.

As sleep finally crept over him, he surmised that it was _that_ moment when he’d become possibly too fond of his flatmate.

He hummed happily into his pillow and imagined that the sheet wrapped tightly around him was, instead, his John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if I'll have a consistent update schedule, but I'll post when I feel comfortable with the cushion.
> 
> That cushion is for your protection, by the way. So when writer's block, also known as procrastination, hits, you'll still have something to read.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and subscriptions! I can't wait to hear your thoughts! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the magnanimous Birdi!

John awoke much later that morning to notes drawn from a violin tip-toeing their way up the stairs and under the sheets. He blinked away the last images of his gangly flatmate, which were floating around in his sleepy haze, and smiled at the thought of the real thing just below.

With a happy hum, he tossed his sheets to the side and began to dress before he caught himself.

While thinking of Sherlock as potentially being more than a friend did, indeed, feel natural, it didn’t make nearly as much sense now as it had last night. Looking back, he’d be lying to himself if he said that it was the first time he’d felt _that_ sort of fondness toward Sherlock, but he hadn’t truly put two and two together until he’d been falling asleep just hours ago.

He frowned to himself as he pulled on trousers and his cabled oatmeal jumper.

Surely, now that he was completely aware of his feelings, the detective would catch on _, if_ he hadn’t already. The man had made it clear that, while flattering, dating and sentiment were weren’t his area. He _was_ married to his work, after all.

John couldn’t imagine anything that would change that, but could certainly envision his seemingly sudden attraction getting him tossed from the flat. _“While I appreciate the steady flow of compliments, your fawning is just embarrassing, John. I’m obviously a distraction for you, and you can’t focus on the case properly because of it. That makes you useless to me, and I expect your belongings to be out of the flat by Tuesday.”_

The frown followed him into the kitchen, but was quickly chased away by the grin brought forth by seeing the lanky detective, despite the troubling thoughts.

The man stood before the window facing London, his silhouette conjuring sweet notes from the instrument he held, as if it was a natural extension of his body. John hummed along quietly to the melody as he began preparing breakfast, immediately filling their flat with the scent of the fry-up.

He’d long since set up kitchen rules. Sherlock could only keep body parts and other bits of experiments on the lower shelves of the fridge to avoid cross-contamination, and everything had to be contained and labelled clearly. The cupboards were to be kept sanitary, and any cookery used for experiments was to stay far away from what they used for actual cooking.

Even so, John had to double check everything since the detective tended to get over-zealous; the microwave had become unusable for food of any sort.

John didn’t notice the music had stopped until Sherlock brushed past him without a word to get to the kettle. He studied the man from the corner of his eye while his new-found anxiety over the situation attempted to swap his smile for a flush. “You’ve slept. And you’re helping?”

“Hm, very observant.” Sherlock gave him half a smile, though his tone bordered on sarcasm. “Though, I must point out that showers and wardrobe changes aren’t necessarily indicative of sleep.”

John’s brow rose of its own accord as his smile broadened. Of course Sherlock was questioning his deduction skills. It had become a sort of game with them since the detective encourage him to assess Carl Powers’ shoes. John would make an observation, and Sherlock would make an inquiry on his reasoning. He found he was winning more often than not these days, much to his delight. “No, but the circles under your eyes are almost gone. You’re not the type to use creams or makeup, so sleep it is.

“Plus, you’re helping. You turn into a petulant child when you’re exhausted and menial labour is suddenly below your station. It’s rather _obvious, Detective_.” He couldn’t help but toss a little flirting into the deduction.

“And thank you.” John plated the last of their food while Sherlock made a face. “For showering, I mean.”

Sherlock grinned with a chuckle. “Ah, yeah. Of course. Good job.” He finished making the tea and joined John at the table, appetite having apparently returned in full force as he dug in right away.

After a few too-large bites, Sherlock sat back and gazed at the doctor. “You’re in a good mood this morning.” The detective’s own expression showed the same was true for him.

John finished chewing and nodded. “Yep. Care to tell me why?”

_Shit. Never mind. Don’t tell me; please don’t._

He averted his attention back to his plate, hoping his sudden grimace still looked like a smile. He knew full well that the physical signs of attraction weren’t lost on his flatmate, but hoped flirtation was.

Why did John have to flirt _now_?

Sherlock was silent for an excruciatingly long moment, most likely examining him thoroughly. “Well, the nightmares didn’t come back, you’ve got good food in front of you which always makes you happy, and you’ve noticed we haven’t had a row in over a week.”

The doctor glanced up at him over his cup, his smile becoming genuine again. “Good guess.” That hadn’t been _exactly_ what he’d noticed, but the detective _was_ just guessing, and it was almost enough to put him at ease.

Sherlock grinned back. He was always pleased to nail the deductions that couldn’t be made from physical evidence. John wasn’t about to take that from him now.

“What did you dream of?”

_YOU!_

 “Don’t remember,” lied the doctor, to which Sherlock just nodded. They finished the rest of the meal in a comfortable silence.

Sherlock offered to do the washing up since John cooked, and he jumped at the offer. As the blogger settled at the desk to start writing up their last case, said offer finally struck him as odd. That made two meals in a row that Sherlock had washed up for.

They also happened to be the only two times the man had _ever_ done the washing up.

He leaned back in his chair, studying Sherlock sceptically. The man seemed completely at ease as if it had been his chore all along.

Wait, was he whistling? Yes, Sherlock was whistling.

John abandoned the desk and moved to lean against the doorjamb, his arms crossed and his expression dubious. “What did you do?”

The whistle wound down in a low tone and petered out. Sherlock concentrated a little too much on drying the last plate and took his sweet time at putting it back as if he’d forgotten its proper place.

Finally, he looked up at John, his eyes slightly wider than usual. “Nothing… that I’m aware of. What did I do?” His eyes darted away again for half a second.

John knitted his brow. “Nothing that you’re aware of? You’re aware of everything, unless you’ve miraculously become dull like ‘the rest of us’.”

The detective huffed and rolled his eyes, losing that ‘deer in the headlights’ look. “I’ve found that I often do or say things that upset you without realizing it. Even though you’ve surely come to expect it and hardly ever call me on it, you can consider this a proactive apology.”

John gawked at him for a moment before composing himself. “So the next time you manage to piss me off, I’m just supposed to remember you’ve done the washing up a few times and forget it happened?”

“Preferably, yes.” He nonchalantly tossed the dishrag next to the sink and slipped into the sitting room, grabbing his laptop and sinking into his chair. 

“That’s not exactly how chores work, Sherlock.” John turned and took his own seat across from the detective. For a genius, the guy sure could be thick. He was just lucky it came off as endearing most of the time; this being one of those times.

“I know, but _you’re_ the one who does them. If I did chores on a regular basis, my picking up a sponge wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary, therefore making the whole thing a moot point.” The detective concentrated on the screen in front of him.

John glowered at the man. “You make it a point to not do anything around here, just so you’ll get extra attention when you stop being lazy?” Not endearing anymore.

Sherlock’s eye-rolling was nearly audible. “Not attention, John. Appreciation.”

The blogger gave an exasperated chuckle. “Let me guess, in your head, it’ll go something like this: ‘Sherlock, you called me an idiot in front of half of Scotland Yard _again_ , but it’s okay since you’ve done the washing up.’

“Or ‘Sherlock, you’ve run off _yet another_ girlfriend, but that’s fine since you’ve done something any other reasonable human being would do without needing an excuse.”

The detective peered over the edge of his laptop with a grin. “Exactly! I’m glad you understand. It’s not a hard concept to grasp, even for you.

“And you should be thanking me for ‘running’ those women off. They were all terrible for you, John. You can do so much better.”

John was running out of dour expressions to direct at Sherlock. “Right, then. There goes our week.” He headed toward the bathroom. “I’m having a shower and going out.”

He closed the door behind him and started the shower, wincing at the creaky pipes, sure that they’d just give one day.

At least they’d have a pool in the basement instead of an un-rentable flat.

When he’d disrobed and was about to step in, there was a tentative knock at the door.

“John?”

John pursed his lips and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock sure knew how to push buttons, even if he claimed he had no idea what he was doing. “Yes, Sherlock?”

From the other side of the door, Sherlock hesitated for a moment. “Does this mean I have to do the washing up again?”

John groaned and swung the door open, forgetting to cover up in his agitation. “No, Sherlock. You know exactly the cause and effect here. Now leave me be and go do what you’re supposed to be _so_ brilliant at.”

Sherlock stammered for a moment and kept his gaze locked with John’s, only breaking it with rapid blinking. “Wh-what’s that supposed to be, then?”

“Thinking!” John closed the door in the taller man’s face, immediately getting under the hot spray to drown out whatever else he might have said.

He knew that at the base of things, this was just Sherlock being Sherlock. The ‘brilliant’ man had very few –if any – interpersonal skills, and though he seemed like a professional manipulator, he never actually understood why he upset people with the things he said and did.

At least he claimed not to understand.

Not three minutes later, John heard the door opening. “Bloody hell, Sherlock! You can’t give me ten minutes? Just ten. That’s all I ask.”

Through the shadow of the curtain, he could see Sherlock lean against the sink. “Not good?”

John tried not to growl. “No, not good at all.” He hesitated and relented, if only for his friend’s meek voice. “But, it’s been worse.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should rephrase what I said earlier.”

He waited for him to continue, but after several moments, he sighed. “Go on…”

“Thinking.” The detective’s outline showed he was, indeed, in his ‘thinking’ position, fingers steepled under his chin.

“If you remember correctly, and you do, you were supposed to leave me alone while you do that.” Again, he paused. Sherlock at least seemed bothered that he’d upset his flatmate, which was new. “Please do so quickly, the water’s going cold.”

“Well, you don’t have to stay in there,” Sherlock snapped, but cut himself off and recouped.

“What I meant earlier was that I know I make you angry on a regular basis. I don’t always realise that what I’m saying or doing at the time will have that effect on you,” he paused. “Like now, for example.

“I thought that, maybe, if I wasn’t ‘such an annoying dick’ _all the time_ , it would make the times that I _am_ one easier to bear.”

At that, John stopped rinsing the suds from his hair. He was waiting for Sherlock to finish with something along the lines of _‘I thought I’d put it into simple terms you could understand.’_ , but when it didn’t come, the doctor couldn’t help the little smile that crept across his lips.

If he wasn’t mistaken, this sounded like some long, drawn out, and completely unnecessary apology. He probably _was_ mistaken, but he didn’t have much choice other than to give his flatmate the benefit of the doubt.

John snapped himself out of his thoughtful haze and finished rinsing, managing to shut the water off just before it turned unbearably cold. He peeked out from behind the shower curtain at his very embarrassed looking friend. “Ah, I can stay if you actually want to talk about this.”

Sherlock blinked at him. The ‘deer in the headlights’ expression had returned, but he stayed quiet.

John continued. “…I don’t know what brought this on, but I’d like to.”

The detective nodded slowly, finally seeming to notice that John was literally hiding behind the shower curtain, and turned to move into the hallway. “That, ah, might be a good idea.”

Once he had some privacy, John hopped out and dried quickly, pulling his clothes back on. He went to the sitting room with caution.

Sherlock was obviously nervous. Nothing good happened when Sherlock was nervous.

The detective sat at the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees, fingertips sitting just under his chin. The man’s eyes were closed, and if it hadn’t been for Sherlock’s foot-tapping, the blogger would have thought his flatmate had retreated to his mind palace.

Instead of joining him right away, John went to the kettle. Tea sure as hell wouldn’t solve whatever _this_ was, but at least they’d each have something to stare at if they couldn’t bear to look at one another. This already seemed like it would be one of those kinds of conversations.

When the kettle had boiled and the tea had been steeped, he finally joined Sherlock in the sitting room. “Hey…” He handed the man his cup, which was taken with a small, embarrassed smile and without eye contact. “Um… I’ll, ah, just wait until you’re ready, then.”

Sherlock looked up at him, if only for a second. “Why? You’re the one who was upset.” John had heard his voice that small once before, but that was during a case to get the upper hand on a stubborn witness. This time, it seemed genuine.

John eased into his chair and matched his volume of his voice to that of his flatmate’s. “Yes, I was, but I’m not anymore. I might not be the world’s only consulting detective, but I know when someone I care about is upset. Especially when he’s sitting across from me and practically shaking.”

John sipped his tea as he waited for what felt like several minutes for Sherlock to respond. “Still thinking?”

Sherlock nodded, but didn’t take his gaze away from John’s right foot. After a while, he sipped at his cup and licked his lips. “I…”

John never thought he’d see Sherlock Holmes lost for words. He’d probably laugh if it wasn’t so unnerving. Instead, he stared at his cup and swallowed an uneasy groan.

Finally, the detective went on. “I don’t want you to go.”

The blogger glanced up, bemused. “I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. I’d have already gone if I were.”

Sherlock seemed to lose interest in the foot. “I don’t mean just now. I mean…” He trailed off again and chewed his lower lip, but managed to hold eye contact this time.

John gave him a small smile. “Neither do I.”

The detective stood and set his cup on the coffee table before looking back to John. He returned the smile and leaned over the shorter man in the chair, crouching slightly. “Though, _I_ have to pop out for a bit.” The smile turned into a quick smirk before he closed the gap and pressed his lips to John’s.

Before John could register what had happened, Sherlock was out the door and whistling his way down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you've noticed I still haven't settled on a posting schedule, and I apologize for that. Every Sunday might be a thing, but I make no promises. 
> 
> Again, a HUGE thank you to Birdi. I'd have already quit this without her, and she's making sure future chapters don't make you all suffer.
> 
> I'll just have to see how much she lets me get away with, as I've already been chastised, but I suppose we'll all find out together!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, beta'd by my favourite Birdi!

As soon as he woke that morning, Sherlock began planning his examination of PaddingtonStreetGardens.

He’d assumed the morning would go on as it usually did in 221B. John would make breakfast and force Sherlock into small talk, which he would complain about the whole time. Then, his blogger would nag him about the washing up and about the state of the flat in general, before sticking his nose into his laptop and drafting a ridiculously-titled tale of their last case. Sherlock would then dive into his investigation, despite the likelihood that there was a dull explanation for John’s apparent sentiment toward the park.

Yes, John had made breakfast, but the rest of the morning had cocked up when the blogger tried to ‘deduce’ him. While Sherlock _did_ have to give him a little credit for noticing the circles under his eyes weren’t as prominent as the day before, everything else he noticed was common knowledge from sharing close quarters and could hardly be considered deduction.

If John’s beguiling tone when he’d teased, _‘It’s obvious, Detective,’_ hadn’t thrown Sherlock for a loop, then the impish way he’d said _‘Care to tell me why?’_ had done the trick.

Sherlock hadn’t really meant to kiss John before he left for the Gardens, but couldn’t stop himself once he’d leaned down. The compulsion to feel his flatemate’s lips against his felt so much like what drove him to solve cases that it was unsettling. For just that moment, it felt as if he’d have a meltdown right then and there if he didn’t get to follow through on what _should_ have been a fleeting urge.

He assumed his blogger would mistake his hasty exit for cowardice, and even after thinking of eighty-seven different excuses for leaving and narrowing them down until only the truth stood, he knew John would never believe the contrary.

The detective hadn’t let himself really _feel_ his emotions in at least a decade. He’d even gone as far as to label himself a sociopath, hoping he could convince himself he was one. Now that said feelings were surging to the surface, he wasn’t sure if he could even process and act on them, let alone articulate them logically.

It had always been the Holmes family way to live behind emotional brick walls and keep people at arms-length. Sherlock had learnt it from the best in the business: Mycroft. He envied his brother’s ability to keep himself utterly composed and closed off under any circumstance and no matter who was involved, though he’d never admit his admiration out loud.

Sherlock grumbled aloud to himself about Mycroft as he entered PaddingtonStreetGardens, causing several passers-by to eye him warily as they avoided crossing his path.

This was why he’d long-since ceased bringing the skull out with him. Before then, they’d openly scamper away; he’d even had the police called on him on several occasions. After five such incidences, Lestrade had finally banned him from bringing his ‘friend’ into public. Three more and the Detective Inspector had confiscated it for a month.

Sherlock scanned everything he passed as he entered the south end of the park. Naturally, it took him less than five seconds to spot a bed of flowers that matched the purple flora he’d scraped from John’s shoe, though the neon-yellow cautionary ribbon staked around it would have brought it to attention to even the most dim-witted of people.

That particular flower bed had been ravaged. The pavement beside the bed showed staining from displaced soil, and most of the bed itself looked as if something had been heaved out of it and haphazardly tossed back in. 

Given that under normal circumstances, London maintained their gardens meticulously, Sherlock stepped over the ribbon and examined the horticultural crime scene.

At the edge of the damage, the packed soil showed gouge marks. Hard lines told of a straight edge, and vertical angles revealed a short handle. A spade would have left angled edges and the longer handle would have resulted in a gentler slope.

The tool was likely a coal shovel or a hearth shovel, given the number of homes with fireplaces in London. Taking into account the light construction of the hearth shovel, it would have been useless for digging earth. Coal shovel, then.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it.

Sherlock knelt beside the damage and gently moved clumps that were in his way. He plucked a stray petal, crushed and lacerated by what could have been said shovel, and sniffed it. He frowned when the only scent present was that of the flower itself and soil.

The clouds above shifted and Sherlock noticed specs of gold glinting in the sunlight. Dropping the petal, he took a pinch of the flecks and examined them more closely and grumbled to himself. “Paint…”

He transferred the bit to the index finger of his other hand to study the other side. “Aluminium shovel, poorly made since a layer of the tool came off with the paint, which means cheap. Lower middle class owner, then.”

Again, his mobile vibrated, and again, he ignored it.

“Anyone who knew how to use a,” he scoffed at himself. “ _Hearth shovel_ would never attempt to dig with it, so likely an adolescent or an idiot. What were they digging for?”

“Oi, what do you think you’re doing there?”

Sherlock jolted upright at the interruption, immediately taking on an air of authority. Coming up quickly towards him was a pair of city landscapers. “I’m surveying the vandalism you lot have left for two days. I should have your jobs for taking so long.”

The pair stopped in their tracks and gawked at him before one of the men became disgruntled. “Who are you, then?”

 The other man nudged the first in the ribs. “Not now, Phil.

“We’re very sorry, sir. These sites have been popping up all over the city, and we’ve been stretched a bit thin trying to do damage control.”

Sherlock gave the two his most official looking glower. “I want action, not your excuses! Get your act together; this is disgraceful.” With that, he strode off the way he’d come, vaguely hearing the two men bickering about what had just transpired.

He was dismayed that he was let go without an argument. He’d been looking forward to talking his way out of the situation with great embellishment, but with gullible gardeners and rebellious teens, the entire situation had proved a waste of time, and a maddeningly boring one at that. The detective hadn’t even had the chance to find what he was looking for in the first place.

Sherlock slowed his pace when he neared Baker Street. Apparently the ruined flowerbed had proved to be a sufficient distraction instead of a waste of time, as previously thought. Sherlock couldn’t think of a single thing to say to John once he returned to the flat.

As if on cue, his mobile went off a third time. When Sherlock plucked the phone from his pocket, he hesitated for just a moment before opening the messages.  All three texts, of course, were from John.

 

**What the bloody hell was that? JW**

**Not like you to run from your problems, Sherlock. Avoiding responsibility, though… JW**

**Fine. Ignore my texts all you want, but you’ve got to come home sooner or later. JW**

 

Sherlock groaned at the technology in his hands as if it were to blame for his inability to truly escape. He just needed time to figure out how to smooth the incident over with his flatmate before he had to see him again.

Thefts, murders, forced suicide bombings entangled in various other crimes; he could solve them in a matter of hours.

People, John in particular, were completely different stories. Sure, there were general reactions to emotional stress that were predictable, but he’d only dealt with that in witnesses of trauma or suspects during questioning.

Given John’s adamant stance oh his heterosexuality, Sherlock could only surmise that his flatmate wouldn’t be receptive to his seemingly sudden, romantic exploits. On the other hand, John had the tendency to forgive Sherlock for most of his unorthodox habits.

Perhaps, if he was lucky, and if he waited long enough, this would all just go away.

Once again, his phone buzzed. Of course, this was the one subject John didn’t seem willing to ignore.

 

**I’d prefer sooner rather than later, but if you insist on staying out, get milk. JW**

 

Sherlock couldn’t help but roll his eyes at his flatmate’s request, but bypassed 221 and made for the market down the street. He’d long since decided that the best way to apologise without coming out and saying it was to just give in to John’s nagging and do the shopping. Between cases, the flat had plenty of milk.

Not much later, the detective stood in front of a dairy display. Normally, he’d just grab whatever he put his hand on first, but since the kiss was likely an affront to John, he didn’t think just any milk would do. Maybe the nice, creamy, expensive brand would do. No, because then he’d complain about the cost.

 

Sherlock sighed and pulled out his phone. **What kind? SH**

 

Forty seconds later, he got a reply. John must have been staring at his phone. Sherlock could imagine the man holding it with a death-grip, and the thought made him smile.

 

**Whatever kind you usually get for your ‘apology milk’. JW**

 

The detective frowned at his phone. So much for that plan.

 

**You’re not supposed to point out that you know things like that. SH**

**You mean like you would? Forget it, just come home. We need to talk. JW**

**Not wasting a trip. SH**

 

Sherlock grabbed the closest gallon and strode toward the checkouts. As the cashier took as long as she possibly could ringing up the elderly couple in front of him, he chewed the inside of his lip. He knew he had the whole way home to worry about whether or not the hasty kiss would drive John away, but he’d never been one for procrastinating.

Once the seniors were out of the way and his milk had been scanned, Sherlock shoved his card at the cashier, who took it with a raised brow. “It ain’t that bigga deal, mate. It’s just milk, innit?”

The detective glowered at her, taking in every detail as he did so. When she finally handed his card back to him, he smirked. “It’s no wonder your boyfriend is sleeping with your sister.” With that, he flounced away, leaving the cashier shouting vulgarities in his wake.

Sherlock practically scurried toward the flat but, again, he slowed when he reached Baker Street. He could have kicked himself in the arse for not taking his time. Now he had milk, but it wouldn’t stop him from having to explain what he’d done and how he felt to John.

He could just imagine his flatmate’s end of the conversation. _“I’ve dealt with enough from you, Sherlock. You’ve been giving me hell for ten bloody months with your tantrums and your violin and your brother. No amount of milk or washing up can make up for all that. And this,_ this _is the last straw. I don’t need you pushing yourself on me, Sherlock. You know I’m not gay. I’ve said it enough times that even_ _Anderson_ _would get it. But you obviously don’t, so I’m leaving.”_

When he reached 221, Sherlock hesitated at the door. Instead of going inside and dealing with John like an adult, he turned and pressed his back against the door, sliding down the blue surface, his head butting the wood behind him with a dull thump.

“He’s not going to leave you, you idiot,” he whinged to himself, continuing to batter the door with his head. “He’s been here this long, why would he go now? Because you bloody kissed him.

“Don’t be daft, of course you’ve run him out. He just wants you home so you’ll help him pack up. You run everyone off, why no – “ Sherlock was cut off as he suddenly found himself on his back when the door swung open behind him.

John was looking down at him, brow creased with apparent concern. “Stop abusing the door. Mrs Hudson will have a fit if you get blood on it.”

The blogger plucked the milk from Sherlock’s hands and made for the stairs. “Come on, you make a bloody awful doormat,” he headed up to the flat, still talking. “Far too lumpy…”

Sherlock sat up and gawked after John. The man was much too chipper to be on the verge of moving out. To say that this was unexpected would be an immeasurable understatement.

The detective rose and closed the door behind him before following John up to their flat. The door was open, as usual, and he crept inside.

Having already been proven wrong about the situation, he wasn’t sure what to expect. He didn’t relish the feeling of the unpredictable.

He found John in the kitchen making tea. Sherlock saw two cups on the counter, so he knew there would at least be a discussion. Part of him wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, but running out the door again wasn’t an option.

Sherlock leaned against the doorjamb, studying his blogger. At this angle, the man showed no signs of irritability. His posture was relaxed, and his movements steady.

“Did you discover anything enlightening on your little excursion this morning?”  John turned and held a cup out to him with a gentle smile. Of course, the doctor always had a good bedside manner.

Sherlock took the cup and turned to claim his chair by the fireplace. “Just that some of the kids around town have taken to vandalising the parks. Nothing of real consequence.”

John settled into his own seat, the same smile still plastered across his lips, and sipped his tea. “What did you _expect_ to find there?”

“I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. I was just…” He trailed off and dropped his gaze to his cup. “…trying to gain some insight, I suppose.”

They were silent for a moment before John set his own cup aside and leaned toward the embarrassed detective. “You could’ve just asked, you know. I go to that park because it’s the closest, and it’s lovely.

“If I’m feeling good that morning, I’ll run the streets around it. If I’m not, I stick to the paths until I’m winded.”

Sherlock looked up at him and frowned. “Oh, I _am_ rubbing off on you, aren’t I?”

“Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing, Sherlock.” John paused and gazed at him. “You could’ve just asked about the other thing, too.”

It took Sherlock a cringe-worthy amount of time to understand what that ‘other thing’ was. When he did, he felt himself flush. “I – I didn’t mean to – “

“It’s okay.” The blogger’s smile widened as Sherlock’s attention snapped back up to him. “Actually, I’m glad you did it.”

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, suddenly unable to comprehend simple speech. Had he just said…?

As if he’d read his mind, John rose from his chair and closed the gap between them, slipping the cup from his grasp and placing it beside his own. Sherlock’s blogger gently placed two fingers under his chin, tilting his face up just slightly, and captured his lips.

Sherlock couldn’t stop the whimper from rising from his closed throat as John’s lips set off every neuron in his brain and released more endorphins than he’d experienced in ages.

All too soon, John pulled away with a grin, almost eliciting a whine from Sherlock at the loss of contact.

“I _meant_ to do that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys! Seriously.
> 
> Apparently the cushion was a good idea since I've gotten one whole sentence written for chapter six since I posted three.
> 
> I'll put chapter five up as soon as I'm done with six. Maybe a little pressure will get me going?
> 
> Also, I noticed the formatting on past chapters was gone. Birdi helped me fix it, so all of the previous chapters have been edited. Some things might make a little more sense now. Huzzah for italics!

**Author's Note:**

> A colossal thank you to Birdi, without whom, this thing never would have gotten off the ground. 
> 
> May Hermes be ever at your side!


End file.
